The crowd is still screaming behind me as I duck off stage, heart pounding like it wants to break out of my chest, sweat slicks down my back, my shirt clinging to me and my throat’s raw from singing—but God, the energy was unreal tonight. I push through the corridor backstage, my boots thudding against the floor. The boys are buzzing, throwing towels at each other and shouting about the crowd.

"Great show, mate!" Niall shouts clapping on my back, but I just nod, offering a tired grin.

All I can think about is how I’m meant to be winding down in an empty dressing room without you. You’d texted me earlier said you couldn’t make it—something about plans you couldn’t get out of. You apologized with one of those pouty emojis that never do justice to your actual face, said you were gutted about it, that you’d make it up to me somehow.

I played it cool, told you not to worry, but I felt it, that familiar weight settling on my chest when I realized I wouldn’t be seeing you after the show—no forehead kisses, no fingers carding through my hair while I lay back and let the high come down.

So when I open the dressing room door and see you there—waiting, perched on the sofa like the centre of every dirty thought I’ve had for the whole week—I nearly drop to my knees. You look up at me with that wicked little smirk I know too well, like you know exactly what you’re doing to me—and you do. My mouth goes dry, blood rushes straight below my belt.

I lock the door behind me without even looking, eyes locked on you like you’re prey and I’ve gone feral. "You said you couldn’t come.” I say, voice hoarse, low.

“Surprise,” you say, soft and sultry, biting your bottom lip like you’ve rehearsed this in your head a hundred times.

My fingers tighten around the water bottle I was holding until the plastic crinkles, then I drop it without a second thought. My eyes roam over you—slow, hungry, like I’ve been starved for days. And honestly? I have.

“Fuck, you’ve no idea what you’ve just started, love.”

I’m already crossing the room in a few quick strides, my shirt sticking to me, my hands twitching to touch you, pull you close, get rid of that lace and see your beautiful body I missed so much.

“You lied to me...dressed like this...waited here, all innocent.” I murmur against your neck, hands sliding around your waist, fingers dragging down the curve of your back.

You tilt your head, teasing. “Do I look innocent to you?”

My laugh is low, filthy, breath hot against your skin. “You look like trouble, baby—the best kind.”

And just like that, the adrenaline from the concert morphs into something darker, hotter—burning for you.

I lift you in one motion, set you on the counter, before pressing you gently against the vanity, the scent of your perfume driving me crazy—every nerve in my body is on fire, every thought tangled up in you.